


swansong

by vanitaslaughing



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Birds, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Fire, Gen, angst is such a weird word to me bc it just means Fear in german, emet-selch hates birds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 03:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20686937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanitaslaughing/pseuds/vanitaslaughing
Summary: He tries to reach for Hythlodaeus and the damned bird, reaches as far as he can, wills the entire Underworld tomove, dammit, I need to reach him,but something grabs him by the shoulders.Two with a heartbeat like his yank him back, back, and then nothing is any longer as it once was.





	swansong

In the days after the End, they find Hythlodaeus. He lives, barely, clinging onto a charred something that Hades might have recognised but Emet-Selch, one of the Thirteen to save Amaurot by bringing forth the Lord Zodiark, does not. Still, there is something unsettling about this charred thing, something that upsets him even through the heavy dark gloom that is a world on its brink with the mind of said world beating in perfect sync with his own heart.

He realises later, much later, that Hythlodaeus had held onto a comically large bird—not unlike the one whose shrill shrieks had turned the open-air debate into a horrid scene of death. By that point Amaurot stands once more, smaller than before, with much less people than before, but once again trees sprout where the air still tastes of ashes. He realises when he sees a bright red bird hop along the plain stone path that cut through the grass, he realises when Hythlodaeus’ voice very gently cuts through the heavy gloom. The bird is gone in a heartbeat, a heartbeat that once belonged to him and that now belongs to His Lord. His Lord who made certain that this world continues existing; reduced perhaps but it exists. It lives, it breathes—it lives. It retains its soul that nearly tore itself apart in a scream of anguish that rained fire and death upon the cities and forests, that cleaved mountains apart and that emptied the oceans.

For a moment he hears the dull thud and the anguished screeching of a creation merged with a soul, sees a shower of red feathers and a blaze—and sees the desperate undying creature turn into a monster that bellowed and shrieked, that killed and killed and killed and killed and—

Hythlodaeus opens his mouth. All he hears is birdsong and the distinct crackle of a small flame that rises into an inferno while the song turns into a wail. And the wailing continues, e mits from somewhere in that unmasked face that Hades would have known but that Emet-Selch does not, and though his heartbeat remains slow and steady and so comfortingly dark, he swears he can feel the pitiful fire he put out that one day, can feel the blast of fire nearly engulfing him and the others on that fateful day, ashes, ashes—

He slams his hands on his ears and runs, runs as fast and far as he can. Zodiark guides him back, heartbeat steady, mind empty. There is work to do, the others whisper and they set about their work. There were souls to retrieve from the Underworld, a new shine to bestow upon the planet so that one day the brave souls who gave themselves up might shine again as well.

Once, just once, Hythlodaeus calls him by his name rather than the title that feels like his true identity by the time. Just once Emet-Selch, Architect of His will, sheds the title and becomes Hades for a day—but his heart beats slow and steady and so familiarly dark, whereas Hythlodaeus’ jumps about like a wild animal by the end of it. Terror, perhaps. Or was it glee?

In either case, he leaves Hades behind that day, behind on those red wings of a bird that was eerie to him but that Hythlodaeus was taking care of.

He sees those wings spread wide, barely hears a voice calling for them to _stop, please stop,_ when it all shatters with a horrible, horrible crack. Shatters; just as the bird went up in flames, just as the bird exploded into flames, just as—

He tries to reach for Hythlodaeus and the damned bird, reaches as far as he can, wills the entire Underworld to _move, dammit, I need to reach him,_ but something grabs him by the shoulders. Two with a heartbeat like his yank him back, back, and then nothing is any longer as it once was.

* * *

Judging from the dim colours still lingering in the ruins this once was a city not unlike Amaurot on the other side of the ocean, nestled high in the mountains and under a constant cover of snow. He cannot quite recall the name, does not know if he had ever actually seen it. But he remembers asking to return the snow to it, remembers watching from afar as the snow overpowered the falling ash and soot.

He plays the role of the scared elder brother following his bold and adventurous sister, two children out of many that these infuriating mortals have. After Igeyorhm’s misstep with the Shard they cannot afford to overestimate mortals again and thus the three unsundered set out to learn all they can. Lahabrea lives on the other end of this ridiculous landmass that seems so familiar yet is not, Elidibus resides somewhere on the islands that have sprouted up under the infernal light’s sundering. Emet-Selch cannot quite say that he misses them but with Lord Zodiark’s eerie silence thanks to the sundering he most definitely feels… alone.

“Are you sure this is wise?” He hates this voice, he hates this body. Lahabrea and Elidibus had pulled him away, Lord Zodiark had spent His last power to protect those not yet torn apart by infernal light, and so they remain on the Source, the same as ever sans their bodies. But now he is a feeble mortal, not even fifteen turns of the seasons old, stumbling over ruins that decidedly looked charred underneath the light layer of snow that foretold an early onset of winter.

A huff from ahead. “Of course! Come on, Alrek, there’s nothing to worry about in these old ruins.”

Mirtya charges ahead like a bull, oblivious to the meaning of these ruins. Emet-Selch closes his eyes and attempts to _see_, but even these ruins are dim and horribly distorted underneath the sundering powers of the light. She’s in her element—Alrek, Emet-Selch’s mortal disguise, is not. He stops, eventually, in what he feels like might have been the central building of the city; he does not remember how similar to Amaurot this one was. The Convocation oversaw Amaurot, but here in the mountains it might have been a different system. Vaguely the distant memory of laughter bubbles up in his mind, a white mask slightly askew as Hythlodaeus’ voice excitedly talks about the witches of… some place… who oversee… things. Thinking about it or too long makes the lack of colour in this place all the more apparent, makes it _worse_, somehow. Ruins where once a city stood, snow where it once rained ashes—as he turns to look to feign interest in his supposed mortal sister, he catches a flash of red. When he turns to look at it properly, it is long gone and so drifts away his sister’s voice joined with Hythlodaeus’ voice; neither of which make sense nor do they speak words he recognises.

* * *

The next disguise he takes is that of one half of a pair of twins. The other boy is bright and cheery, intelligent and radiant. Emet-Selch is called dull and gloomy, unfriendly and hard to understand—but despite all that, the other half remains cheery and drags him along, talks about the world as if it has worth. As if there is a point to the countless birds of any colour that their mother keeps, as if there is a point to any part of this meaningless short existence that mortals have under Hydaelyn’s rule. He wishes his heartbeat were still joined with Lord Zodiark’s but there is naught to be found for a soul without a body. He instead watches the birds fly around in their cages, pointedly ignores the bright red ones that seemingly hurl themselves against the bars in a panicked frenzy, in a strange desire to live free rather than caged and safe.

And then the other half starts researching something. A bedtime story that Emet-Selch cares little about for even mortal stories are pale and dull just as the colours of life around them—but the other half adores it. Years go by and he leads his dull mortal life in a dull mortal way, until the day his mortal brother stands in the doorframe clutching a book to his chest and a wild glint in his brown eyes.

He found it, he says, he finally found the Phoenix. Perhaps now they can figure out the reason why the story goes like this and why his nightmares are accompanied by red birds.

Emet-Selch follows his dull mortal brother that everyone else called so bright and alive. Not even those lights guttering out makes him feel a thing, the Underworld long since become the Lifestream that Hydaelyn keeps out of his reach. Lord Zodiark does not answer. His heart does not beat.

But he swears it would have jumpstarted the moment he beheld the glorious Phoenix that his brother sought for half their lives. A bird, beautiful beyond reckoning—red and gold and adorned in a wreath of flames. But all he sees in that moment is  the restricted area of the Bureau of the Architect, bright colours and flares of energy, an arc of flame in the middle of the room and a horrible wretch of a creature that sees naught but the horror of death when the beauty of life shone so bright that it bled through the walls, crept up to the heavens and seeped deep into the earth. Sees the flare of red feathers as the world drowns in a burst of light so overwhelming that it nearly robbed him of his senses with how intense it is.

He turns on his heel and runs,  runs—except this time there is no Zodiark to calm him down. He slides, slips—and a mortal life is cut short. Not his. Never his. He but blankly stares at the pathetic flicker of light that gutters out without much fanfare, not feeling a thing when the other half arrives and screams. Screams not unlike the bird, but does not combust.

* * *

Lord Zodiark would have never done this.

He snuffs out the flames of these birds one by one, shard by shard. Let them fade into oblivion. Let their flames never burn again. Let those foolish mortals use what feathers remain for their pathetic cheap magic.

Elidibus and Lahabrea do not stop him.

They do not welcome him back when he returns.

The birds merely join together to a flock that haunts his steps, their feeble lights joining to the same radiant glare that he saw that day while Hythlodaeus’ grin was not on his face for a moment.

* * *

In the streets of the Allagan capital he sees a flicker of light so familiar the heart of the body he commandeers  _aches._

As if struck with a weapon on a battlefield, Emet-Selch turns to look for that distinct colour that has been weakly rejoined with other parts of it, desperately looks around even if the dull, dimmed colours make anger bubble up within the pit of this mortal shell. And he finds it, that shine that never once left his thoughts—because Hythlodaeus  did not quite let him forget for prolonged times.

Emet-Selch recoils when his vision focuses on the mortal coil again and he sees a glare of red. Of course. Of course Hydaelyn would continue playing Her game; of course She would ensure that Hythlodaeus was reborn as red as the bird he took care of at the end. Red hair, long red tail, red ears that turned around—this was not Hythlodaeus despite carrying the same shine. This was a man with bright green eyes, one of these frail mortal sub-group that called itself Miqo’te. An Allagan soldier, royal personal guard from the way he looked. And beside him stood an unremarkable young woman—were it not for her bright red eyes and the way she carried herself.

Salina, somewhere far far down the line of succession that would never happen. The Rejoining was close and these people would all be dead by sunset, all thanks to the other group somewhere behind him that had set their eyes on the Crystal Tower.

But Emet-Selch’s eyes bore into the back of Hythlodaeus’ pathetic reflection, watched him do his duty as a good soldier would do. Too good perhaps; there was too much familiarity between how he acted around that useless princess, his emotions plainly betrayed by the way his ears perked into her direction constantly and how his tail moved like an excitedly agitated cat’s.

Hells, Emet-Selch wonders what he sounds like. Edges closer. It isn’t the  _right_ Hythlodaeus, but a vague approximation of a person he had not seen in countless mortal years.

“—tavern, not birdsong.”

“No one said anything about birdsong, Desch.”

Mortals call Her Mothercrystal. Emet-Selch calls Her the bane of his existence.

Allag falls not too long after. Another Calamity consumes the Source.

Princess Salina and Desch survive, but Emet-Selch does not spend any energy in tracking them. He does not care. Does not care. He absolutely cannot care, even when that light gutters out as suddenly and quietly as mortal lives were like to do. Doesn’t care that he doesn’t find it again for a while.

* * *

He begins to understand why the bird acted the way it did. Begins to hate it even more for it having ever existed and Hythlodaeus reaching that conclusion so much earlier that he desired a bird to teach to enjoy life instead.

The birds in the cage are the mortals, and Hydaelyn is their creator. And She managed what the people of Amaurot never did—Her creations have a soul despite the fact that She is a creation herself. Souls she stole and redistributed, but souls regardless. These creatures crave life yet do not rage against death in blind defiance. They burn themselves out over and over and over; but like those with the sight back then they know that they will but return to the Lifestream and be granted another life as someone else within time. Then they forget, burn bright again and the cycle repeats.

He loathes it.

The same weak lights, born time and time again uncaring, unknowing. The Underworld’s lights were all unique once, burned out when their time was up and never returned.  These same ones never learned from their follies, never once stopped charging ahead no matter how many times they doomed themselves.

One never learned to stop while they were ahead. The soul that lingered within what-was-his-name-again hungered for ever more formidable opponents until one day one surpassed him. The flicker that shone within this Scion remained a liar for the good of all despite the countless times he was killed for it. And this one, this one blindly charged on ahead and ahead, paving ways that should have been impossible to pave for others. He had been amused by Lahabrea being beaten and his own plan set in motion, had listened with half an ear as Elidibus complained about that one.

But now that he watches their soul strain under that incredible amount of light, he understands. He sees the bird again, thrashing about and screeching, breathing fire and trying to crack free. This one would turn into a breathtaking sin eater eventually, he muses and leaves. And returns. And leaves. And returns. Suddenly he has his own bird that he comes back to, and for a moment he swears the glazed-over eyes of that cheap imitation of Hythlodaeus spark with sharp knowledge and understanding—Emet-Selch turns towards it, but it carries on as every other Ancient Shade, unbothered by him not looking the same, unbothered by him not conforming to their normal standards.

The Warrior of Light mortals call them—he has half a mind to call them phoenix instead. For they are like that creation. They are like that bird, rising time and time again and rage against the bars of the cage their mortal life has put them in. Hydaelyn’s Champion is most unworthy, but for half a moment he all but hopes that they ask more about Zodiark.

But he does not get to keep the bird in a cage. The bird vomits up blood and light, looks at him in sheer horror and anguish as he lowers himself down next to the Exarch.

Emet-Selch trades one bird for the other, and by Hydaelyn’s thrice-cursed existence, he understands.

Souls that know naught awaited them after death would rage and rage and rage. But these mortals, they do not give a damn. They know that Hydaelyn awaits them at the heart of the Lifestream where their weak souls will return inevitably. The aether of the living and the dead shines so weakly compared to the brightness of what he once knew, but as he slowly wipes the bloodied spit off his face and considers ripping the crystal arm off the Exarch’s body for that transgression he cannot help but be somewhat impressed.

“So defiant, all to the end,” he whispers to no one in particular and reaches for the Exarch’s face. Suddenly all the defiance is gone—for all the defiance they have, they are still scared of dying. Red eyes, red hair; and his hands grasp thin air as the man scrambles away. Scrambles too fast, judging from the horrible cracking noise that goes through the room when he hits the wall. “That must have been your rib, dear Exarch. Do be careful to not puncture your non-punctured lung, will you?”

A rattle, a wheeze. The soul this one bears is not familiar to him at all—perhaps  it once lived in a city by the sea, in a city in the mountains, the plains, the forests. A sole survivor of the End, unfound and dragged into the sundering when Hydaelyn’s blow struck true. Allagan red joined with that one reflection of Hythlodaeus’ red hair, red ears, most certainly the red tail as well; the sole remnant of times long gone by.

A red bird in a gilded cage. And while it did not thrash against the bars, against the ceiling, he knows that it will escape or spend its energy uselessly—perhaps that is why he approaches the shade of Hythlodaeus when he feels a surge of light not that far away.  He knows the shade will not answer him seriously, will not do anything.

Indeed, it only smiles its blank, smug smile. If only the Exarch had coughed up something, anything other than blood thus far—he longs to have Hythlodaeus’ face wear anything but that when he asks a comically serious question that makes no sense.

“Why, Emet-Selch, I had thought you to be more sensible than taking a bird for a pet what with the end times looming near.”

He gives the shade a blank look—for a moment he thinks that its vapid smile falters a little, barely more than a quiver of the lips as if it senses something is wrong. But it cannot. It is not a living being. It is mere aether, pulled from the Lifestream rather than the Underworld, not belonging to anything in particular, devoid of any shine. Still, he tries to play his role from back then. “And here I thought you had gotten yourself a bird to stuff your head with more feathers with.”

“Touché, Architect. A most rude thing to say—I could have helped you, but alas I fear that any help would only be met with ridicule from you.”

Strange—somehow that does feel like something Hythlodaeus would say; but a Hythlodaeus that Emet-Selch does not know. Hades does, however. How frightening, to think of himself as Hades rather than Emet-Selch for once. The shade, same blank everything about it, leans back where it sits. Sighs—a very Hythlodaeus thing to do. Perhaps these shades are not as blank as he made them to be in a blind act of agony when he found the ruins of Amaurot in this place encased by the waves of the sea.

“Emet-Selch.” How strangely grave that shade’s voice sounds. “Do you remember the creation that merged with a soul? The bird that died and rose in an arc of flames, over and over?”

“I do,” he drawls, focus on the glare of bright light that was approaching his Amaurot. He so very desperately wants to go back to resting that evening, wants to go back to Hythlodaeus closing his eyes with a soft smile under that mask when the damned thing vanishes into thin air and thanking him. Instead he speaks to a recreation, instead he doesn’t even know where the shards of Hythlodaeus’ soul linger.

“I think I understand it now.” The shade’s voice is barely more than a whisper. “I think I understand what it means to fear death and the Underworld now.”

With that, the shade gets up and leaves, gait unbothered as if it hadn’t suddenly broken character out of thin air. Emet-Selch remains.

Remains and thinks.

The Exarch, so willing to die yet so scared of dying, is passed out on the ground when he returns.  Unlike that creation he does not have the energy to get up again and again, to cough up blood until naught remains but the fire to be reborn. But he can sense the desire still burning within that feeble mortal boy. Scared of dying, yet willing to die. Scared of dying, unwilling to die.

Hydaelyn had managed to teach her stolen souls that which the Underworld never taught them. It wasn’t fear—it was respect. Respect for the limited time they were given, centred entirely on themselves and naught of the sort being there for the others. Whereas the Underworld’s constant glow and the many people able to sense the light of life’s ebb and flow made them think about a mass rather than individuals. Those souls that merged with creations unwillingly did not see. They did not care. They were like mortals.

Gods, he hates them—mortals as well as those creations that thrash about blindly. He hates Hythlodaeus—he hates every bit of what creation had been turned into. He hates them all, those long gone by, those shattered by the sundering, hates his fellows, hates every life he ever lived.

And finally, finally he gets it. No living being was supposed to live that long. Ever.

He’s tired. He feels as if something is slowly crushing him. The light approaches—and the damned red birds somewhere on the edge of his vision sing, sing of bygone days, of fires that consume all, of splintering reality and all those lives he wasted trying to find a worth in mortals without ever finding it. And now that he finally found a worth all he finds himself feeling is loathing. Loathing, so much loathing.

By the Source’s Twelve, he is tired. So tired.

But no matter how much he tries, the lights do not shine as they used to when he closes his eyes in the copy of a building he once loved and that he now hates. All he sees is a glare of light that hurts his eyes, all he sees is red on the ground when he opens his eyes again to focus on the mortal coil. Damned Exarch, brandishing a colour that was so familiar and so d elightfully forsaken .

Emet-Selch had never wanted to kick a bird. He wishes he could right now. But something about kicking a caged animal feels wrong, even if that very bird later sets everything on fire like that creation. Voice strained, cracking, breaking—but the Exarch stands, once scared of dying and now no longer caring.  _I think I understand what it means to fear death and the Underworld now,_ Hythlodaeus’ shade repeats in his ears and adds a very quiet,  _don’t you too, Hades, after all this time?_

He does.

**Author's Note:**

> did you know in 2012 when my tumblr url was pigeonsatan i was known for making nageki fire jokes in my friend groups  
anyway this is supposed to be disjointed as hell
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/peerifool_) | [tumblr](https://aethercurrent.tumblr.com/)


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